Saturday, August 8, 2009
The feel of your skin brushing my arm
touches me like a thousand lavender fields
during a June’s mid-day walk in Provence.
The scent is intoxicating, too much, not enough,
I can't decide whether to run into the field--
taking in every morsel of beauty,
lying down only to rest in the comfort
of knowing that I'm surrounded,
that I'm just one step closer
to being one with the flowers
and memorizing their feel, their movements.
That's what I want--
to feel like nothing separates me,
nothing separates us.
There's not this force that blinds me,
this sun reflecting off the petals,
this brightness that I have to hide from
because it's too much.
Or it could be.
I just want to rest in it all,
take it all in,
just let it be.
Mais je peux pas.
That's what it feels like.
Mes sens tout sentent,
and wanting to be covered.
But being covered only happens
I risk exposure
to the sun.
And maybe in the end,
it will all have been an illusion
from the very beginning.